


So Scatter Like Flower Petals (As the Rain Comes)

by isuilde



Series: Scatter Like Flower Petals [1]
Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Amnesia, Domesticity, Fluff, M/M, Unrepentant Fluff, in which everyone's all grown up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The letter is not even a letter. There’s only a single line, under a ridiculous doodle of dark grey clouds and rain and an alleyway that Saruhiko recognized. But it’s Misaki’s scrawl, Misaki’s last message, part of Misaki that is left behind, and Saruhiko clutches it close to his heart.</p><p>‘I’ll be back on the next rainy season,’ it says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Scatter Like Flower Petals (As the Rain Comes)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the movie Ima, Ai ni Yukimasu (English Title: Be With You). I recommend you to listen to Orange Range's Hana while reading this. :D
> 
> Thank you for medicsglasses on tumblr for beta-ing and making this more coherent to read. Also, big thanks for chipacchi on tumblr, who is still illustrating this even when she's in the middle of mid-semester exams. She'll be posting her arts once she's done with it, and when she does, I'll also put it here so you guys can enjoy her flawless, perfect, perfect art hnggggh.

Amidst us, scattering like fower petals

Meeting you is a dream-like miracle

We love each other, we fight

We climb all sorts of walls together

Even when I’m reborn, I’ll be a flower by your side

  
**_~Hana,_ ** _Orange Range **.**_  


Misaki is only 29 years-old when he dies.

For such a wild, untamed soul, Misaki’s light blinks out in an all-too-quiet fashion. Admittedly, none of them had put too much thought into Misaki’s cold; except that suddenly his fever rises alarmingly in the middle of the night. Saruhiko’s been dumping extra blankets on top of Misaki, slipping into bed and pulling Misaki close as he keeps vigil, ignoring the burning heat that is Misaki’s skin trapped under the blanket.

But before dawn, Misaki pries his eyes open, glazed eyes searching Saruhiko, and despite everything, he grins, like this is the happiest he’s ever been. Saruhiko kisses him, again and again and again; his mind is already planning to get Misaki in the earliest train downtown and to the doctor once the sun has properly risen. Misaki’s lips are pliant under his, like kissing Saruhiko back takes all the energy he has left.

“Saruhiko,” is the last time Misaki calls his name. “Stop forgetting to wash the rice before you cook it, dumbass.”

Saruhiko doesn’t really associate himself with greed, but he thinks it is unfair for Misaki to leave so soon. They have only been together for a short six years, after everything concerning the Kings and Dresden Slate and Sword of Damocles had settled down, and Saruhiko does not think it is nearly enough.

He doesn’t cry when Misaki’s breath slowly fades into the crook of his neck, doesn’t cry when the rise and fall of Misaki’s chest stops. But he doesn’t get out of the bed, either, not when Misaki’s body slowly turns cold and rigid, not when Awashima comes barging in to drag him to work and ends up prying him off Misaki instead.

The funeral is a blur, but so is his life after that.

**——-o0o——-**

Misaki leaves a letter behind, hidden under the rice cooker, of all places, and Saruhiko doesn’t know whether he should cry or laugh at the absurdity of it all.

The letter is not even a letter. There’s only a single line, under a ridiculous doodle of dark grey clouds and rain and an alleyway that Saruhiko recognized. But it’s Misaki’s scrawl, Misaki’s last message, part of Misaki that is left behind, and Saruhiko clutches it close to his heart.

 _‘I’ll be back on the next rainy season,’_  it says.

**——-o0o——-**

“It’s been almost a year,” Awashima says, pensive eyes following Saruhiko’s fingers, crossing another day on the calendar. She frowns at all the papers strewn all over Saruhiko’s station and crosses her arms. “You don’t seriously believe that he’s coming back.”

“I don’t,” Saruhiko clicks his tongue, swallows down the unspoken  _but I couldn’t help but hope_. It tastes bitter, clinging in the back of his throat the way green vegetables do when Misaki forced him to eat them. He tries not to remember it.

His computer screen blinks; a notice from Akiyama about a Strain on the far east side of the city. The Dresden Slate might have been disassembled, ridding the Kings of their powers, but the origin of the Strains’ powers is still unknown, thus Munakata’s decision to not dismiss SCEPTER 4 altogether. It’s a little harder to fight, now, without their blue aura, but none of the SCEPTER 4 members are quitters.

Saruhiko doesn’t really understand why he hasn’t quit, though. Before Misaki’s death, he hadn’t quit because he’d needed the money—with Misaki moving in, he’d needed a stable source of income, and SCEPTER 4 was convenient. After all, Misaki was only qualified for odd jobs; he was never bright enough to get any stable job.

It doesn’t matter, now. Nothing in his life matters anymore, he thinks. It’s all boring and empty, a steady blur of muted colors that does not mean anything.

**——-o0o——-**

He starts making  _teru teru bouzu_  and hanging them upside down.

Spring is coming. The cherry blossom blooms early this year. Saruhiko wakes up to fluttering cherry blossom petals drifting in from the opened window of his apartment. For a moment, he watches them, remembering that it’s already March, then gets up and steps out into the balcony.

He takes the cherry blossom branch, shakes all the blooming petals off, and hangs  _teru teru bouzu_  on it instead.

**——-o0o——-**

The first spring rain of the year falls five days later.

It makes pitter-patter sounds upon Saruhiko’s umbrella as he walks home. Maybe he should move out and get a closer apartment to the headquarters. There’s no point in staying in that two-person apartment in the outskirts of Shizume City anymore; Misaki had been the one who chose it, insisting on it because it’s the closest apartment to HOMRA that they could afford. Saruhiko wasn’t in the mood to fight, so he had relented. It was him that Misaki was going to live with, anyway. Not the HOMRA jerks, no matter how close their apartment to the bar is.

His cell phone buzzes in his pocket. He answers it without looking at the screen, and is surprised to hear Anna’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Saruhiko,” she says, quiet and calm, “you should come here.”

Saruhiko clicks his tongue. “I don’t want to come to that bar.”

“Not the bar,” she replies. “Turn right.”

Saruhiko pauses on his steps, slowly turning his head right. Anna is standing in front of the alleyway—his and Misaki’s alleyway—her back to Saruhiko, but her head turned to see him, an umbrella in one hand and her cell in the other. She’s looking straight at him, unblinking, her dressdrenched wet because for some idiotic reason, she isn’t holding the umbrella to shelter herself from the rain.

 Instead, she’s holding it for someone in front of her: someone who is sitting on a puddle of water, just as drenched as Anna is even with the help of the umbrella, red mop of hair framing a familiar scowl, a shaking hand clutching a black beanie on his lap.

Anna blinks at him.

Saruhiko lets his umbrella fall.

**——-o0o——-**

“Who are you?” are Misaki’s first words to him, snarled out the way he always does when Saruhiko annoys him. Saruhiko doesn’t quite manage to mask the hurt flashing on his eyes, but it’s also gone the second Misaki’s next words tumble out, in a shaky, terrified voice: “Who am I…?”

They’re all drenched now—his umbrella is abandoned out there in the sidewalk, and Anna’s umbrella is simply too small for the three of them. Saruhiko stares and stares and stares, because he still can’t quite believe, because Misaki had died in his arms, because half of Misaki’s ashes had been scattered away into the wind and the other half kept safe in a tiny box inside Saruhiko’s pocket now, because the dead should not be able to come back to life.

 _‘I’ll be back on the next rainy season,’_  Saruhiko remembers, and feels like laughing because how stupid is it?

“Misaki,” Anna says, daintily crouching as she folds her umbrella and puts it down on the puddle Misaki is sitting on. It makes a quiet splashing sound, and Saruhiko thinks it’s odd that he even notices such things.

But Misaki is here. When Misaki is here, his world comes to life.

Misaki is blinking at Anna. “Huh?”

“Your name,” she says simply, her fingers touching Misaki’s chest. For one dumb moment, anger flares in Saruhiko’s chest, because he should be the one to touch Misaki first, not Anna. “Misaki.”

Misaki blinks thrice, confusion and relief bleeding out of his figure. Saruhiko watches his lips move silently, forming the three syllables  _mi-sa-ki_ as if tasting them, and gets irrationally annoyed.

Anna looks up when he clicks his tongue. “Saruhiko,” she says, “bring him home?”

He stares at her, hard. Anna doesn’t flinch—the brat never does, what the fuck. Instead she nods and collects her umbrella and bag, then stands up and says, “I’m not telling anyone.”

“Wait—“ Misaki begins, scrambling to get up, but ends up swaying on his feet and Saruhiko has to catch him. Misaki struggles for a moment—Misaki _always_  struggles in his arms at first, it’s ridiculous how coming back from the dead doesn’t change him one bit. “Wait—you, who are—“

“You’re with me!” Saruhiko shouts, loud and painful, and Misaki goes rigid in his arms. His fingers tighten around Misaki’s arms—they’ll probably leave marks there—but Saruhiko doesn’t care. Misaki is his, Misaki is going to be with him, Misaki doesn’t need to think about anyone but him.

Anna stares at him, unblinking.

“You’re with me.” He repeats fiercely, drawing Misaki closer, trying to fold themselves together. “You’re with me, Misaki. You don’t need—“ he swallows, buries his face on Misaki’s nape, because there are too many emotions climbing up his throat, and he can’t say anything else without shattering into pieces all over Misaki’s feet.

He feels Misaki shudder, feels him relaxing a little, and Anna chooses that time to say, “Saruhiko is warm.”

Misaki tenses and splutters. Saruhiko looks up into Anna’s steady gaze, and realizes that she just voiced Misaki’s thought.

Anna gives them a small smile, turns around and leaves.

**——-o0o——-**

The bed is unmade. Saruhiko doesn’t even care about it. Misaki apparently doesn’t, either, but he does hesitate in the bedroom doorway, glancing around and taking in the whole room like it’s the first time he’s ever been there.

“What?” Saruhiko says warily. Misaki starts, and Saruhiko watches a scowl forming on his face.

“Nothing.” He looks around again, sees the the only photograph on the bedside table, and strides quickly to take it. Saruhiko clicks his tongue, because he completely forgets about that stupid photograph, the one Kamamoto snapped almost six years ago when he and Misaki first moved into this apartment. It’s a slightly blurry photograph of Misaki and him, sprawled asleep on the floor, tangled limbs under a blanket, Misaki on top of him as his hand winds possessively around the crow’s waist.

He stays silent even as Misaki speaks up, “…it’s me…?”

“First day in this apartment. Not that you remember,” Saruhiko says, lips thinning at his own bitter tone. He opens the closet and takes out one of Misaki’s shirt—he’s kept all of them, every single article of clothing, except the formal piece that was used in Misaki’s funeral. That one was burnt together with Misaki, and apparently that doesn’t come back.

He tosses it to the shorter man, who catches it easily and frowns.

“That’s yours,” Saruhiko says. Misaki shoots him a doubtful look.

“It’s too big for me.”

“It’s originally mine. You said it’s comfortable for sleeping, and never gave it back.”

There’s an interesting shade of red spreading on Misakis’ face so fast that Saruhiko finds himself staring in fascination. Misaki twists the shirt in his hands, his gaze going back and forth between the photograph and Saruhiko and the shirt, before finally he looks at Saruhiko and demands, “Give me pants.”

“But you don’t,” Saruhiko says, “usually wear pants with those.”

“Oh, fuck you.” A pillow flies across the messy bed, hitting Saruhiko square in the face. Misaki growls at him, but his face is bright red and it’s so fascinating that Saruhiko just can’t blink. “Give me some fucking pants, dumbass.”

The words rip out a laugh out of Saruhiko’s throat, half-hysterical as it echoes in their room, but Saruhiko takes out a pair of pajama pants and gives them to Misaki anyway.

**——-o0o——-**

Saruhiko takes the long abandoned skateboard on the corner of the living room and hides it on the top of the closet, because that is the one place Misaki would never reach, so he won’t bother to look, either. Then he sweeps the whole house for any indication of his smoking habit—one that’s escalated since Misaki’s death to the point of Munakata telling him it’s going to be dangerous for his health.

He sleeps on the couch—Misaki’s already dead to the world by the time he finished changing his clothes, sprawled across the bed with no space left for Saruhiko to lie down comfortably. Saruhiko dumps a blanket on him before making his way out to the living room, watching bad TV commercials until he falls asleep, and wakes up to the sound of steady pitter-patters of rain and something sizzling in the kitchen.

It takes him five minutes to remember that Misaki is here, because he  _hasn’t_ been for a long time.

“Your kitchen is fucking pathetic.” Misaki tells him from across the table—they’re having a simple omurice breakfast and Saruhiko can taste pineapples in it, and he wants to laugh because coming back from the dead doesn’t change Misaki’s odd obsession with putting pineapples into rice. He also wants to cry because it has been a while since he eats Misaki’s cooking. “Did I really live here? Because I would damn well get proper grocery myself, and at least  _clean_  the fridge. It fucking smells.” Then his face takes a horrified look. “Unless I’m actually a fucking useless person who does nothing and spends the day sleeping.”

“You usually do groceries.” Saruhiko replies. “You’ve just been… sick.”

Misaki scowls. “I’m fucking fine.”

“You lost your memories yesterday.” Saruhiko counters. “You’ve been sick for a while, that’s why.”

There are too many things flashing on Misaki’s face in the span of one second: disbelief, doubt, confusion and anxiety, before the shorter man finally settles on a pondering look. Saruhiko doesn’t wait for him to say anything; instead he finishes his meal and goes to the balcony to tie a  _teru teru bouzu_  upside down.

“You’re tying it wrong,” Misaki calls from inside. Saruhiko ignores him. He strides back in and snatches his sword—he’s going to have to deal with another Strain today—and stalks towards Misaki.

“Don’t go outside,” he says. “It’s gonna be troublesome if you lose your memory again and I can’t find you.”

His reason is sound; he knows that Misaki can’t say anything against it, but he waits for the reluctant grumble and nod to satisfy him. Misaki should not go out—Misaki does not  _need_  to go out. Misaki is here, Misaki has come back only for him, and no one else needs to see or know about it. Misaki is his, always and forever his.

He bends down to kiss Misaki, but the redhead flinches violently before he can close the gap between their faces, and Saruhiko stops dead, clenches a fist until he can feel his nails digging into his skin. Too soon. Too soon. That isn’t a face Misaki should make when he’s with him. But this Misaki does not remember anything, and it hurts, it’s like being rejected all over again, but Saruhiko doesn’t want it like this, either.

So he draws back, watches the slow relief blossoming on Misaki’s face, clicks his tongue, then flicks Misaki’s forehead.

He’s opening the door when Misaki’s voice drifts out from the living room, “ _itterasshai_.”

It’s been a long, long while.

Saruhiko bites his lips and swallows a hysterical laughter, instead replacing it with a mumbled, “ _ittekimasu_.”

**——-o0o——-**

He counts the days left until summer—two months and a half.

On the way home, he sees Anna out of the corner of his eyes. The girl is walking with a friend, someone Saruhiko’s never seen before, and he scoffs, because the brat actually has friends. He’s been thinking Anna probably just sits in class and stares and stares and dives into people’s minds some more.

Then he blinks, because there are five  _teru teru bouzu_  hanging on Anna’s umbrella, all upside down.

He doesn’t know what to think of that. So he turns around, deciding to take another path to the grocery shop, and remembers a time long, long ago, when it was Totsuka-san who hung  _teru teru bouzu_  on Anna’s umbrella, only not upside down, and wished for the sun to come out.

It’s a ridiculous memory.

**——-o0o——-**

Misaki finds the ashtray he’s hidden under the refrigerator, what the fuck.

He gets this sad look that makes Saruhiko wants to pull him in, to hold him close and kiss him senseless, because that look means Misaki is remembering Mikoto-san, and he should not be remembering the late Red King when he is with Saruhiko.

He can’t, though, because Misaki doesn’t even know that they’re together. Kind of.

“You smoke?” the shorter man asks, putting the ashtray on the kitchen table, the sad look already turning into a pondering face.  Saruhiko glances at the ashtray, his lips thinning, but when he looks up at Misaki, he finds a scowl. “What the fuck is an ashtray doing under the refrigerator? Did you even clean this fucking place when I was sick?”

He answers with a click of his tongue, and watches Misaki’s eyes drift back to the ashtray, this time solemn. Irritated, Saruhiko reaches for the ashtray and simply flings it to the trashcan. It makes a loud thud noise, but doesn’t break into pieces. Then he turns to Misaki and growls lowly, “Stop that.”

Misaki blinks, taken aback, but his voice is steady and challenging when he replies: “Stop what?”

“Mikoto-san is dead.”

Misaki frowns. “Who?”

Saruhiko pauses, feeling silly, because for a moment there he was actually angry, thinking that Misaki remembers Mikoto when he doesn’t even remember Saruhiko. “You don’t—remember.”

“No,” Misaki says, his gaze drifting to the trashcan now. “I just. It’s fucking complicated, you know? I don’t even know why I felt so fucking sad looking at an ashtray.”

Saruhiko takes a sharp, quivering breath, because he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know what to feel either, and that irritates him more than anything. He settles for flicking Misaki’s forehead, earning him a furious yelp, but Saruhiko ignores it in favor of pulling Misaki’s head and pressing it onto his shoulder.

He holds on for two seconds, then lets go, throwing a flustered Misaki a smirk over his shoulder as he goes on to the balcony.

**——-o0o——-**

Awashima finds him lazing around making  _teru teru bouzu_  at work and gives him hell for it.

He snorts and keeps on making them anyway. He also ignores Domyouji’s protests about him hanging those dolls upside down on their windows. By the end of the day, Munakata fingers one of the hanging  _teru teru bouzu_  and says, in a tone that’s too close to envy, “But the dead can’t come back.”

Saruhiko kills his cigarette on the ashtray, clicks his tongue and chooses not to answer. He knows how it feels, not being able to move on from a grief that weighs you down, day-after-day-after-day.

**——-o0o——-**

Misaki spends two days cleaning the fridge and the kitchen, grumbling and yelling and cursing at Saruhiko’s mess, because apparently Misaki doesn’t need to remember that the kitchen belongs to him and Saruhiko is not allowed to step in there. Saruhiko thinks it’s good common sense.

There are odd looks thrown his way, sometimes, when Misaki finds things. Like when he enquires if there’s another futon, because they only have one bed, and wonders where he usually sleeps if the bed is Saruhiko’s. Like when he finds two pairs of matching chopsticks, or the pairs of matching shirts. Or when he voices that for two people living in one apartment, they have far too few blankets.

Saruhiko usually just gives him his best infuriating smirk.

Because he’s missed Misaki’s yell and punches, too.

**——-o0o——-**

He bumps into Anna in the morning train, literally.

“Saruhiko,” Anna says by way of greeting, a pinched look marring her beautiful face because Saruhiko accidentally steps on her toes. He steps back, ignores the yelp that comes when his back bumps someone else. Anna’s face smooths into her usual expressionless stare, even as she states, “You haven’t told him.”

Saruhiko really shouldn’t ask. Not when Anna is deliberately being cryptic, because that means she’s just been into his head. He also kind of already knows what Anna is talking about, but the word tumbles out of his tongue anyway, sounding more like a kid’s defense. “What?”

“That he died.”

She says the word so softly, yet so easily. Saruhiko wants to hate her for that, because even now, Saruhiko can’t  _think_  about Misaki and death in the same sentences without wanting to rip his heart out of his chest. His face hardens, and he wishes Anna is not currently probing around in his head, wishes he can read Anna’s expression, the fucking brat. “He doesn’t need to know.”

“He’ll be gone,” Anna replies. “When the sky clears up.”

“Stop digging around in my head.” Saruhiko growls lowly. Anna finally wrenches her gaze away, turning it down, and Saruhiko wonders if it’s an expression of guilt.

**——-o0o——-**

“Hey,” Misaki says, flipping a photo album on the couch while Saruhiko is stuck doing paperwork on the floor. “These—do I take most of these?” The flipping pauses. “I mean, I don’t know most of these people—but I’m not in these a lot.”

Saruhiko makes a noncommital noise on the back of his throat. “You said you wanted to continue what Totsuka-san left.”

“Totsuka-san?” Misaki’s voice is small.

“He’s dead, too. He used to film things. People. Took pictures too. Lots of them. Kusanagi-san has them.” He straightens up, deft fingers tying his hair back to keep them from falling forward and tickling his neck. It falls haphazardly over his nape, and swings sideways when he turns to Misaki. “Don’t think too much about it.”

“I’m just trying to remember, dumbass.” Misaki counters, but it comes out in a sleepy mumble, so Saruhiko doesn’t reply back.

**——-o0o——-**

The next day, when he’s washing the dishes and forcing Saruhiko to dry them, Misaki asks about the skateboard.

“What skateboard,” Saruhiko deadpans, but Misaki raises an eyebrow and tilts his head at the direction of the closet. That is the exact moment when Saruhiko notices that the skateboard is already down, on the floor and leaning to the side of the closet. He smooths his face, hopes Misaki doesn’t notice his attempt at doing so, and shrugs. “You hadn’t been using it since you got sick.”

Misaki hums. “So it  _is_  mine.”

 “I don’t think you actually remember how to use it.” Saruhiko snipes, because he hates the idea of Misaki going out to try the skateboard. He hates the idea of Misaki going out of the house, period. There will be people—so many people—wanting to see and touch and talk to him, and then Misaki will know that he’s supposedly dead, and Saruhiko does not want that.

Misaki points a ladle at him and glares. “I’ll remember eventually.” He puts down a bowl and reaches for another one. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I have friends who will teach me, if it turns out I can’t remember jack shit about it.”

Saruhiko’s hand jerks, so hard that he drops the pan he’s drying. Misaki blinks, and he is opening his mouth—probably to laugh at Saruhiko or to scold him, whatever—but Saruhiko beats him to it. “You can’t.”

He hates that the words come out in what sounds like a terrified whisper.

The silence that falls between the two of them is oppressive. He can literally feel Misaki’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I can’t what?”

“Meet them,” Saruhiko says, too fast, because his mind is whirring a mile a minute, and he tumbles over his words. “I mean. You can’t go out, so you can’t meet them, obviously.”

Misaki crosses his arms. “Why the fuck can’t I go out?”

“You’re sick!”

“I feel  _fine_!” Misaki grits out, leaning forward menacingly, and Saruhiko just loses it. He grabs Misaki’s wrist and pulls it out from under the running water, ignoring the yelp and the splashing water, turns Misaki so he can see him clearly and breathes hard.

“No.” His chest is heaving, too full of emotion, and everything is so bright, bright and terrifying, because Misaki is going to slip away again and he can’t—he can’t. “You’ll forget. You’ll forget again, and you’ll leave, and I can’t—“ he takes a hard, shuddering breath, and suddenly realizes that he’s shaking. He lowers his head, thumps it against Misaki’s shoulder, and closes his eyes, tight. “I can’t.”

For a moment, Misaki’s whole body tenses. But then his hand reaches up, clasping Saruhiko’s shoulder , and fuck, Saruhiko can actually feel him swallow.

“I’m fine, dumbass.”

“You’ll forget,” Saruhiko breathes, because everything has been so wonderful and so painful at the same time. “You’ll forget me.”

The fingers on his shoulder are wet—water seeping into Saruhiko’s shirt, cold and sharp—and he feels Misaki’s fingers tighten a little.

“Are we…” Misaki murmurs, voice steady despite his trembling fingers and his shortened breaths. “Are we. You know. Uh.”

Saruhiko blinks when Misaki’s neck turns red.

“You and I…” Misaki says, sounding a bit more sure of himself this time, like he’s just realized something that decides what his whole life is going to be. “We’re together. Aren’t we? Like—we’re dating.”

Saruhiko stiffens.

“It makes so much fucking sense. I mean. We only have one bed.” A shaky laugh, as the fingers on Saruhiko’s shoulder tightens even more. “And the pictures. And the fucking matching things. I mean. Fucking. Matching. Things.”

Saruhiko tries pushing him away, but Misaki doesn’t budge. Instead he turns, his face only inches away and Saruhiko can feel his breath on his nose.

“You never told me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Saruhiko says helplessly.

Misaki laughs, like he’s  _this_  close to breaking down in hysterics. “Were we. I mean. Was I. Am I.” He shakes his head, nose brushing Saruhiko’s cheek. “We’re in love?”

Saruhiko doesn’t answer. Instead he tilts his head up and lets his lips brush Misaki’s—the tiniest touch that makes Misaki freeze. He doesn’t pull away, and neither does Misaki. They stay like that for what feels like a long while, until Misaki closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath.

“Saru..”

Saruhiko feels like something in his chest tears, because  _god_ , it’s been so _long_.

**——-o0o——-**

Misaki doesn’t ever ask to go out again, to Saruhiko’s relief.

Instead, he sits down next to Saruhiko on the couch, fidgets for a moment, then looks at Saruhiko with those determined, fiery eyes Saruhiko’s missed so badly.

“Tell me. About us.”

**——-o0o——-**

He doesn’t really know where to start, so it’s only two days later that he begins with an honest line: “You hated me.”

Misaki snorts from where he is digging around in the box next to their TV set. “I’m not surprised,” he says, but surprisingly, Saruhiko doesn’t feel hurt. It feels like watching himself sitting on the couch, from far away where Misaki can’t touch him, and the world blends into a beautiful monochrome and he doesn’t feel much.

It’s probably why his next question doesn’t hurt, either. “Do you hate me, now?”

Misaki pauses, hands stilling where they’re about to pull out some DVDs, and turns to regard Saruhiko thoughtfully. It makes Saruhiko swallow, because Misaki is rarely thoughtful—he’s wild and honest and never thinks about anything twice.

It scares him a little.

“That’s—“ the shorter man mumbles, avoiding Saruhiko’s eyes, like he finds the stacks of DVDs more interesting than the fact that Saruhiko is trying to tell him what he’s been demanding for two days. “You’re so fucking annoying sometimes—wouldn’t have guessed at first that you’re  _this_  clingy.” Misaki clears his throat, and Saruhiko catches a shade of deep red spreading on his ears, down to his neck and oh, Saruhiko thinks,  _how fascinating._  “But nah. I don’t hate you, dumbass.”

It’s frightening how such simple confirmation makes colors flood back into Saruhiko’s world, like a rush of air when he breathes out, makes his heart beats thrice as fast, and everything is alive, alive and bright and wonderful. Saruhiko laughs, feels the prick of tears on his eyes and blinks them away—when did he become a crybaby?

He clicks his tongue, and begins, really begins this time, the way a fairy tale usually does: “A long, long time ago, there were two kids in the same middle school…”

**——-o0o——-**

He tells the story, piece by piece—every single moment he can remember, and there are a lot. He tells it over dinner, tells it over the droning voices of news in the television, tells it over washing dishes, tells it even as he makes _teru teru bouzu_. Misaki listens, asks questions, but never retorts back, not even when Saruhiko tells him of the time he betrays HOMRA.

He does frown, though, like he can’t understand a thing about Saruhiko, and suddenly Saruhiko’s being thrown back years and years—Misaki and him standing in the alleyway, hurling painful words at each other and him burning his own HOMRA mark.

“Why?” Misaki says, and instinctively, Saruhiko lashes back.

“Because it’s stupid. All of you HOMRA are.” He doesn’t even realize he speaks in present tense, now. “All of you, HOMRA, with your pride and Mikoto-san, Mikoto-san, Mikoto-san.”

Misaki scowls. Saruhiko clamps down on the next words and lets the silence eats them as he stands up, wordlessly stepping out into the balcony.

Misaki doesn’t follow. When he goes to the balcony, Misaki never follows.

**——-o0o——-**

Saruhiko comes home to Misaki watching the videos he recorded a long time ago.

“Hey,” Misaki says, like nothing’s happened at all, like he hasn’t been avoiding Saruhiko after the whole betrayal story. “You never told me that you record stuff, too.”

Saruhiko shrugs. “You forced me to,” he answers, throwing his coat and sword onto the couch. Misaki makes a humming noise at the back of his throat, unblinking eyes glued to the screen where his younger self was sliding down the stairs on the park, laughter drifting in the air chasing him as he speeds down, bare arms glistening under the scorching hot sun, a wide grin plastered on his face.

Saruhiko swallows.

 _“Did you get that? Oi, Saru!”_ brash, wild and loud, and the camera pans out, then zooms in to Misaki’s face. He’s laughing—beautiful, beautiful Misaki who never hides his emotions, taking Saruhiko’s breath away even if he’s only a moving image on the screen.

_“You almost slipped right there, idiot.”_

_“Did not!”_  a bottle is thrown from the direction of the camera; Saruhiko remembers clearly that moment, when Misaki catches it without even looking, swiftly opening the cap and dumps the content onto his head. He remembers the moment Misaki makes a relieved sound, shakes his head and how the droplets of water drips down his bangs, remembers the moment he comments—

_“You look like a drowned chihuahua.”_

_“Fuck you.”_ But the camera records a grin far brighter than anything else. _“I’m a crow.”_

It takes Saruhiko ten seconds to notice the chuckle that drifts in the room, and ten more to realize that it’s Misaki’s, coming out from the grin on his face.

He dares to flop down behind Misaki, an arm length away, and is surprised when Misaki shuffles closer and leans back, his back resting against Saruhiko’s left arm.

“I look happy, huh.”

Something in Saruhiko’s chest jumps up to his throat, and he nearly chokes.

“Hmm.”

**——-o0o——-**

He spends a whole night telling Misaki of Totsuka’s death, of the Silver Clan, of the evil Colorless King, of Ashinaka Gakuen, and of Munakata killing Mikoto. When it’s over, Misaki’s jaw is clenched tight, bright eyes flashing hurt and confusion and sadness so tangible, but at least he doesn’t cry.

He looks like he’s about to, though, and it angers Saruhiko.

It’s not fair that he still has to fight against Mikoto’s memory, again. It’s all he did, back in his early twenties, trying to win Misaki over memories of golden days long past, of Totsuka and Kusanagi and HOMRA and Mikoto.  Trying to grab ahold of Misaki’s existence, of Misaki’s full attention, of Misaki’s sight—because Misaki’s place is with him, always with him and forever with him. Even now, he isn’t too sure how he managed to win Misaki over.

So he says again, “they’re dead,” and Misaki looks at him with glassy eyes.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I just. I just need a moment.”

He can’t help it. He can’t help but reach out for Misaki’s wrist, fingers tight as they hold on, an unspoken, desperate attempt of asking Misaki not to go any fucking where. Misaki stares at his fingers for a long time, until Saruhiko’s fingers shake from tightening too much and Misaki’s wrist has got to hurt under his grasp, but then he smiles, sad and contemplative and—oddly content.

“Dumbass,” he says, patting Saruhiko’s fingers. He doesn’t pull away.

**——-o0o——-**

“You’ve been telling me about everything but us.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Tell me anyway.”

**——-o0o———**

There are lots to cover after the incident on Ashinaka Gakuen, but Saruhiko focuses on their story. The story of the Kings aren’t theirs to tell; their story is the one made to be forgotten by people, unimportant when compared with the history of the Dresden Slate and the Kings, finally unified under the Silver King’s command, disassembling the Dresden Slate and vaporizing their Swords of Damocles. Their story is about the clansmen and those who lost their King, about the rage and disbelief and unforgivable betrayal, about struggling to stand up and watching the Swords of Damocles disappear into thin air.

“You were so angry all the time,” Saruhiko tells Misaki from the balcony, softly huffing out the smoke in his lungs. It floats up lazily, vanishing as when the night rain touches it. “When I took up smoking, you tried to beat me up.”

“You mean, I  _beat_  you up,” Misaki corrects, a haughty tone in his voice.

Saruhiko snorts. “No, you  _tried_.”

“Your story comes from a very fucking biased view.”

“You came to me, though.” Saruhiko hears the wonder in his voice, and clears his throat. “All the time. Every time you had no idea what to do, every time another member of HOMRA stopped coming to the bar.” He chuckles in order to hide the feelings bubbling up into his words, and teases, “Guess you couldn’t do anything right without my help, huh, Mi-sa-kiii….?”

“Don’t—“ Misaki scowls, and for a second Saruhiko prepares to be hurt, prepares himself to hear the old  _don’t call me that, traitor_ , but Misaki continues: “—say it like that, idiot. That sounds so fucking creepy.”

“What, you don’t like it? Mi-sa-kiiii…?”

“I’m going to kill you, idiot Monkey.”

Saruhiko throws his head back and laughs.

**——-o0o——-**

Amidst us, like scattering flower petals

Meeting you was a dream-like miracle

We love each other, we fight

We climb all sorts of walls together

Even when I’m reborn, I want to meet you

  
**_~Hana,_ ** _Orange Range **.**_  


__

Even years and years after the King’s power is gone, sometimes Saruhiko forgets that he doesn’t have that blue aura anymore.

The Strain slices his stomach open, and he drops on the ground, wheezing and coughing blood, watching the rain washes the red down the drain. The Strain leaps to attack him again, but Awashima is there, blocking and protecting him, while Akiyama is trying to haul him across his shoulder, yelling for medics.

The wound isn’t that deep, he wants to say, but everything is rapidly turning dark, so he lets go because it’s easier.

He spends the night drifting in and out of consciousness in the hospital. It’s eight in the morning when he finally wakes up lucid, aware of his surroundings and the aches on his whole body, and of the excessive red bean paste on his breakfast.

He demands to go home. Awashima looks scandalized, but Munakata stares at him, long and hard, and says, “Is someone waiting for you at home?”

Awashima looks frustrated. “Captain—“

“A dog,” Saruhiko says helplessly, feeling the panic clawing up its way to his throat because he hasn’t hung any  _teru teru bouzu_  upside down since yesterday. Munakata raises a perfect eyebrow, and then nods.

Benzai drives him home. Saruhiko declines his co-worker’s offer to help him up to his floor—there’s an elevator, he’s taken worse wounds than this, he isn’t going to die. He watches Benzai’s car go, then rides the elevator up and comes home to the sound of a breaking plate.

Misaki stands in the kitchen, eyes wide and terrified, and he’s shaking.

Saruhiko leans onto the wall before his feet gives up on pain. “Hey,” he grunts. Misaki’s sharp breath actually echoes in the house.

“Holy fuck, Saru,” his voice trembles. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Long story,” Saruhiko heaves himself up, one arm on the wall to support his entire weight. But there’s an arm encircling his waist, pulling his weight off the wall and onto a warm body, guiding him down to the bedroom. Saruhiko hisses when Misaki’s arm tightens around his waist, aggravating his wound, and the shorter man freezes.

“You’re hurt.”

“No shit,” Saruhiko grits out. “Spent the night in the hospital.”

“They cleared you up to go?”

“No. S’fine, I’ve been worse.” He pushes Misaki away, closes the gap between the bedroom door and the bed in three long strides. Misaki follows, fusses with the bed like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, until Saruhiko glares at him and sends him out with a command: “Make me something good, why don’t you.”

He begins on more  _teru teru bouzu_  once Misaki is out of the room.

He never knows that outside, Misaki slides down the wall and shakes.

**——-o0o——-**

The fever comes in the evening.

Misaki makes him soup, something he claims to have come from a can and only heats up, but it’s so ridiculously delicious that Saruhiko thinks he must be lying. He listens as Misaki rants on, about not having enough blankets, about not having the necessary medicine, about not staying in the hospital until he’s all patched up properly.

“Threw all the medicine out,”’ Saruhiko mumbles, the fever setting a hazy cloud on his mind. “They couldn’t save you anyway.”

Misaki pauses on his rant and turns. “What?”

“…nothing.”

**——-o0o——-**

He sleeps, then wakes up to Misaki’s face, so close that he actually jerks back.

Misaki scowls. “Don’t look like you’ve just seen a fucking ghost, idiot.”

 _Maybe you are_ , Saruhiko thinks, but thankfully doesn’t voice it. Instead he says, “You have a treasure box.”

“Huh? Are you even fucking awake?”

“You gave me the key,” Saruhiko says, because that’s the only thing that makes sense in his head. “I don’t know where you hid the treasure box, but you gave me a key.”

“Okay, stop right there. You’re not makin’ any sense, your fever is really high. You’re not completely awake, are you?”

“The key,” Saruhiko mumbles, closing his eyes as sleep comes back, so fast he nearly forgets what he’s about to say. “Hangs on the sword.”

He thinks he imagines the hand pushing his hair back softly, but it feels nice, warm and comforting, and he breathes out against that hand, brushes his lips on the calloused palm.

**——o0o——-**

When he wakes up again, he’s curled up in Misaki’s arms, with fingers running through his hair in a motion that makes him sleepy again.

“Awake?” Misaki whispers from the top of his head. “Drink something.”

Saruhiko doesn’t move, just closes his eyes again and murmurs, “Did I say anything?”

“No,” Misaki doesn’t miss a beat, which means it’s an honest answer, and Saruhiko’s just glad he didn’t talk in his sleep. Misaki doesn’t need to know that he died, once. “Seriously, idiot, you need to drink. Here, I got you water.”

They shuffle around; Saruhiko sits up under the too-many-blankets and accepts the glass of water. He chugs it down in big gulps, taking another one from Misaki and emptying that one, too. He sighs, settling back, and notices Misaki sweating under the blankets.

“Uh,” Misaki says, because the previous spell that caused him to cuddle a sleeping Saruhiko must have been broken. “Well. Get back to sleep.”

“Not sleepy.” And that’s true—he’s wide awake now. Misaki gives him an exasperated stare, leans back down next to Saruhiko and huffs.

“Then tell me the story.”

“What story?”

“Well, you said I hated you. But we’re living together now, and I’ve been dating you for what supposed to be six years, according to you, so something must have happened, right?”

Saruhiko is silent for a moment, unable to tear his gaze away from Misaki. It’s been so long since he slept with Misaki like this, watching him amidst the sheets and blankets, and Saruhiko is hit by a sudden wave of longing and _want_. He swallows, closes his eyes, and focuses back on the question.

Something must have happened, huh?

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “You nearly died, I think.”

Misaki’s eyes widen. “What.”

“The Green King’s Sword of Damocles fell in the middle of the disassembling ritual,” Saruhiko says, keeping his eyes on Misaki—alive, bright, breathing Misaki—because if he closes them, he’ll remember that moment again, and he has enough nightmares as it is. “You and a bunch of HOMRA idiots—“

“Hey!”

“—you guys were in the area when the explosion happened.” Saruhiko swallows, lets out a hollow laugh. “I saw you from across the river. I couldn’t do anything.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of him breathing hard, until Misaki’s palm frames his cheek, thumb grazing Saruhiko’s lower lip.

“I survived.” It sounds like a reminder, which Saruhiko appreciates, but fuck if he admits that.

“You survived,” he agrees. “Slept for three fucking months, and Anna even cried for you, you were such a  _shit_. I thought you were dead.”

Misaki grins. “It’d take more than that to end me, dumbass.”

 _Actually it took less_ , Saruhiko nearly snaps, but he bites his tongue and closes his eyes. “When you woke up,” he continues; his tongue feels like lead, heavy and hard to move. “There were so many things—too many things to do. Big clean-ups, I was needed everywhere, and nobody told me that you’d woken up. I was sent out of Shizume City to help deal with the government in Kyoto. I went; didn’t really care about it, since you weren’t waking up, and the doctors said you might not make it anyway.”

He grits his teeth, lets the pain of the memory make him shudder, and Misaki bumps their foreheads together.

“Were you angry?”

“When I found out that you woke up? Fuck yes. I was furious, Misaki.”

“So you came back to Shizume City, then?”

“No,” Saruhiko opens his eyes, because this part always makes him smile. “You went after me to Kyoto.”

Misaki actually looks awed. “No fucking way.”

“You did. Dragged me out of a meeting and halfway across Kyoto, snapping at me all the while, calling me idiot over and over. I had to trip you and made you fall on your ass before you stopped.”

“That is a shitty lie, Saru.”

“Yeah, okay, it’s a lie.” Saruhiko pauses, leans forward to brush his lips against Misaki’s. There’s a ridiculous relief that spreads inside his chest when Misaki doesn’t even stiffen. “But you told me that you’d move in with me, so that’s that.”

Both of them are silent for a long time after that, listening to each other’s steady breath. Just as Saruhiko thinks he can fall asleep like this, Misaki speaks up, his voice soft and brittled at the edges. “That’s—what, six years ago?”

“Almost seven,” Saruhiko mumbles.

Misaki sighs. “Six goddamn years. Holy fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a really long time.”

Saruhiko’s lips twitch up in a smile.

**——-o0o——-**

The treasure box is rather small. It’s buried unders so many clothes in the corner of the closet, unearthed only because Misaki digs into the closet so far trying to find more blankets for Saruhiko. Saruhiko watches him brings it to the bed: an unassuming white box the size of a shoe box, only a little bit wider.

There are more photos in it, ones of Saruhiko and Misaki, ones of HOMRA—some from the time when they were both in HOMRA, a few from the time after the Ashinaka Gakuen incident, and more from the recent years. Misaki stares at the HOMRA photos for a long time, until Saruhiko scoffs in disdain.

Misaki throws him a glare, but doesn’t say anything. He puts away all the pictures instead, sees a small, broken pencil, and finally, a leather-covered diary with Misaki’s name on the corner.

Saruhiko laughs until he can’t breathe. Misaki scowls.

“I don’t keep diaries,” he shoots sharply, even as his fingers run down the worn leather carefully. “There’s got to be some goddamn important things in here—stop laughing, idiot Monkey!”

In the end, Misaki doesn’t read the diary. It’s put back in the box, closed and locked and slid under the bed, with a sullen glare that dares Saruhiko to laugh. Saruhiko laughs anyway, because he can, and Misaki punches him on the shoulder so hard he’s practically being shoved back down onto the bed.

**——-o0o——**

He finds the note under the rice cooker and frowns.

 _‘I’ll be back on the next rainy season,’_  it says. A single line and a doodle of that alleyway—the one where Anna and Saruhiko found him—the words scrawled in handwriting that he’s grown familiar enough to recognize as his own.

He looks out at the balcony even as he listens to Saruhiko’s deep breathing in the bedroom, unable to wrench his gaze away from the upside down teru teru bouzu, and wonders what is happening.

Saruhiko is still asleep. The medicine should keep him like that for at least another hour.

He has the key.

Forty minutes later finds him sitting sprawled on the balcony, unblinking eyes gazing through the curtain of rain, the diary on his lap opened on the last page. He doesn’t quite know what to feel now, doesn’t quite know what to think, doesn’t know if he wanted to think or not. Because the whole thing is ridiculous and impossible and stupid and—and it makes so much sense it’s staggering.

One rainy season. That’s all the time he has. All the time to make a difference.

He wonders if it’s ever been enough.

It’s only when the corner of his mouth tastes salt that he even realizes he’s crying—silent and nearly not breathing, but crying—and Misaki thumps the back of his head on the wall, scrunching his face up like he’s just tasted the most bitter vegetables Saruhiko leaves behind on his plate. He shudders, because the pain blossoming in his chest is real and so tangible, because he’s known and tasted what happiness is like, because he knows it’s going to be ripped out of his hands, because he knows he’s going to shatter Saruhiko into pieces.

Everything in exchange for a choice.

“Fuck my life,” he laughs softly, tasting tears and the bitter bile in his throat.

**——-o0o——-**

It takes Saruhiko two weeks before he can get back to work. Two weeks, and his co-workers throw him a party after work.

“It’s the Captain’s order,” Akiyama says with a shrug that he answers with a click of his tongue. “Captain’s probably looking for revenge. Nobody attended the last New Year’s Party, after all.”

He hangs another  _teru teru bouzu_  upside down on the balcony railings and fishes out his phone. He catches Awashima’s gaze from the corner of his eyes, but ignores her downturned mouth as he listens to the dial tone. Twice, thrice, four-five-six times, before a voice, feminine and silky and blank, answers, “Saruhiko.”

“I need you,” Saruhiko says briskly, because there’s no use on hesitating with Anna. “To tell him that I’ll be home late. There’s—“ he pauses, clicks his tongue. “—a troublesome celebration that I have to attend.”

Anna is silent for a moment, like she’s weighing Saruhiko’s words carefully, then she says, “Saruhiko hasn’t told Misaki? That he died.”

Saruhiko growls lowly. “He doesn’t  _need_  to know. Don’t say anything unnecessary.”

“Alright,” Anna replies smoothly. “I’ll come over after school.”

**——-o0o——-**

Misaki opens the door for Anna with a sad smile.

“Guess I should say,  _‘I’ve been waiting for you’_ , or something, huh?”

 Anna studies him. “Does Misaki remember?”

“No,” Misaki laughs once, harsh and painful. “But there’s the diary, and—fuck. I read it—all of them. Come in.”

They have tea—jasmine, the only kind Saruhiko can drink and one that Misaki pesters him to buy because Misaki does get sick of milk, sometimes. It’s relaxing, in a way, and drinks make it easy to swallow back the emotions threatening to burst out of his chest. It also makes staring back at Anna feel less like gazing into an endless sea of blood, and more like looking into an unfathomable depth.

“Saruhiko says he’ll be home late,” Anna tells Misaki, eyes fixed on him even as she brings the cup to her mouth. The heat makes her eyes look a little foggy. Misaki doesn’t know if it makes it worse or not. “There’s a celebration he has to attend.”

“Huh. That idiot monkey sure is popular at his work.”

“Does Misaki worry?”

Misaki snorts. “No. He can take damn well care of himself,” he pauses, takes a big gulp of his tea because the fear is clawing at his chest again. He hates the memory of that night—of him waiting for Saruhiko to come home, of watching the clock tick past three in the morning, of the feeling of helplessness that threatens to drown him, because he doesn’t know where Saruhiko is, doesn’t know his workplace number, doesn’t know who Saruhiko works with, doesn’t even have a fucking phone to try making calls with, and what if Saruhiko left him again, betrayed him again like Saruhiko told him, what if he was all alone—

He hates that he only knows about SCEPTER 4’s dangerous works from the diary and from Saruhiko’s story, hates that Saruhiko came home severely injured, hates that he actually broke a plate because he saw Saruhiko come home, because the relief at seeing Saruhiko coming back is—

“Misaki.”

“Ah.” He blinks and shakes his head. “Nah. Not worried. It’s just—I hate being fucking alone and left behind.”

Anna gives him a small smile. “Yes. Misaki has always hated that.” She turns to the balcony, gazing at the numerous  _teru teru bouzu_  hanging upside down on the cherry blossom branch, on the railings, on the windows. “Saruhiko’s made so many.”

Misaki grins humourlessly. “It’s not going to change anything.”

“But Saruhiko believes,” Anna says, like it’s the only important thing, and maybe it is, because there’s no one in this world who can understand someone else like Anna does. She takes another sip of the tea, a finger brushing across the porcelain’s surface. “All that’s left is what Misaki feels, now.”

There’s a long, long silence after her words; honestly, Misaki hasn’t thought that far, yet. He’s an idiot through and through, after all, he thinks with a wry amusement, but he’s here now, and that’s probably the only thing that matters to him.

Here, having only two months worth of memory and time that’s running out quickly.

“Anna,” he says, tastes the syllables on his tongue, because it’s the first time he has said the girl’s name since he saw her in that alleyway. It feels familiar, though not as intimate as Saruhiko’s name had tasted, and he can’t help but smile at that. “I think I’ve been happy.”

Anna’s gaze falls on him, unwavering and steady, and isn’t it uncanny that a girl her age can look so strong?

“But him,” Misaki begins, feels the emotions bubbling up his throat, but doesn’t bother to take another gulp of his tea. He deserves this moment of honesty, he thinks, and Anna does, too, after what she’s done all these years. “Saruhiko. He isn’t—he isn’t as strong as he looks. He can take care of himself, but he  _can’t_ , when it comes to me. When it comes to being alone.” He pauses, closes his eyes, feels his chest throb at the thought. “When it comes to change, and having happiness taken away from him.”

Those  _teru teru bouzu_  dance in the wind that brings the smell of rain. Misaki thinks of Saruhiko, sitting alone in their living room, fumbling with tissues and rubber bands, hanging those dolls upside down.

“He’s going to be in pieces. And there’s—there will be no one to pick them up. No one’s going to fix him—he won’t let anyone, that fucking monkey,” the tears prick his eyes without warning, and he tries blinking them away, only for them to fall. “I’ll be gone. I’ll be gone again, and Saru isn’t going to be just fine, after that. But I—I fucking want him to be okay. To be happy again, whatever that takes. He just—he’ll need someone to take care of him, when he can’t take care of himself. And when I’m gone, he won’t take care of himself, Anna, and that’s—“ he takes a shuddering breath, digs the heel of his palm into his eyes, and lets out a painful sob. “That scares me.”

Anna’s hand feels small, when it rests on top of his. But Misaki grips it anyway, because he needs an anchor now, he needs it desperately, needs to know that it will be okay, because while he can still get his happiness, Saruhiko might not.

“Take care of him for me.” He says fiercely. “Fucking please. Take care of him.”

Anna’s eyes, red and endless and deep, find his with a surprising determination.

“I will.”

**——-o0o——-**

Saruhiko wakes up when a pillow hits him square in the face.

“I prefer the times when you kissed me awake,” he complains, which earns him another pillow to the face. Then he glances at the clock and groans. “Goddammit, Misaki, it’s fucking five in the morning.”

Misaki is standing on the doorway now, arms crossed and lips turning downward. “Get the fuck up,” he commands. “We’re making breakfast.”

“What.” Saruhiko says, distracted by the apron in Misaki’s hand. “Are you seriously asking me to enter the kitchen?”

“I,“ Misaki declares, “am fucking sick of having to get up earlier just to make you breakfast. Which means you need to fucking learn to make a decent breakfast by yourself.”

He enjoys seeing Misaki in the apron, but that doesn’t mean he would ever wear one. They waste ten minutes bickering about aprons, what the fuck, and Misaki caves in after hitting Saruhiko in the head with a ladle. They  start with eggs, Misaki instructing him how to make a proper sunny side eggs, which he manages to fuck up seven times before he gets it right.

Misaki sniffs. “Not bad. Huh—guess you’re having a big breakfast today.” Then he proceeds to get another egg and make one for himself, leaving Saruhiko to stare at his seven failed attempts and his one decent result.

He looks at Misaki to complain, because he can’t just eat eight eggs so early in the morning, but the words are left forgotten on the tip of his tongue when Misaki’s fingers are tucking his bangs back behind his ears, an annoyed expression on his face, and Saruhiko says instead, “Wait.”

He ignores the way Misaki raises his eyebrows and goes back to their bedroom instead, fumbling around for a second on the bedside drawer. When he comes back to the kitchen, he tells Misaki, “Don’t move,” and reaches for Misaki’s bangs, frames his head with one hand, while the other fastens a pair of simple red hairclips to keep Misaki’s bangs from falling into his eyes.

Misaki’s eyes find his. Then he tilts his head a little, grazes his lips against Saruhiko’s palm, and looks up at him under half-lidded eyes.

Saruhiko’s throat goes dry.

He recognizes  _want_  when he sees it.

“I—“ he begins, but the pan sizzles, and the moment breaks. Misaki scowls, elbows him away and tells him to get his stinking eggs to the table, grumbling about monkeys who can’t cook a damn. But there’s a shade of red across his cheeks, to the tips of his ears, down to his neck, and Saruhiko can’t help but begin to laugh.

This, he thinks, as he sets down burnt eggs on the table. This is the only thing he needs to live.

**——-o0o——-**

Misaki steals a kiss—wet and sloppy and fierce—when they play a fighting game, nearly kicking the consoles away as he twists forward.

Saruhiko’s mind goes blank for a moment.

His character loses. Misaki lets out a victorious whoop.

**——-o0o——-**

It isn’t raining outside, but the clouds hang low and heavy, a somber reassurance to Saruhiko even as the wind brings in the smell of the rain.

“ _Ittekimasu_ ,” he mumbles lazily as he opens the door.

Misaki snags his arm, turns him around and kisses him properly, long and hard and challenging. Saruhiko kisses back, tilts Misaki’s head up and deepens the kiss, steals Misaki’s breath away when they part.

Misaki’s grin is dazzling.

“I fucking love you,” he states, bumps Saruhiko’s shoulder with a fist, and pushes him off when he tries to kiss him again. “ _Itterasshai_.”

“I hate you,” Saruhiko says before the door closes on him, Misaki’s laugh ringing in his ears even after he’s out of the apartment complex.

**——-o0o——-**

“Six fucking years,” Misaki whispers in his ear, his voice a warm liquid that lulls Saruhiko to sleep.

“Shut up,” Saruhiko grumbles, bites the side of Misaki’s neck softly, but freezes when Misaki shudders and lets out a small “ah.”

His eyes travel up to find Misaki bright red, but there’s hesitance in his eyes and—is that fear?

“Go to sleep,” Saruhiko mutters, swats at Misaki’s hand when it grips his shoulder tighter. “Seriously, Misaki, I’m fucking exhausted, you have no idea how many paperwork I had to—“

“I want to,” Misaki cuts him off, and the edge of his voice trembles, but he keeps his voice even. “I fucking want to, dumbass.”

Saruhiko looks at him.

“Six fucking years,” Misaki repeats, eyes turning hard. “I’ve done it over and over again with you even before the whole thing about that betrayal. I just can’t remember. But I fucking want to.”

Saruhiko snorts. “That’s not—“

Misaki silences him off with a heated kiss, pushing him back and fucking climbs him, and Saruhiko groans low in his throat as he pulls Misaki closer, closer, closer—there’s nothing like this, he thinks, nothing like the connection he can feel when he touch and kiss and break Misaki into pieces only to build him all over again. Misaki bites when they part, fingertips flutter down Saruhiko’s chest; the clothes a mere barrier now, an unwanted obstacle, so Saruhiko simply rips it off.

Misaki splutters. “Don’t rip it off!”

Saruhiko replies with a glare, pulls Misaki’s hips down and grinds, feeling a feral grin stretch his face at the howling sound Misaki makes.

He goes at it slowly, because Misaki doesn’t remember a lot and it’s been so long since Saruhiko himself did it, but their bodies remember better. His fingers remember how to leave electric trails down Misaki’s spine, where to dig his nails and play, how to grab and hold on. He remembers the taste of Misaki better than anything—sharp and wild and free, remembers how Misaki sounds—his groans and growls and pants, remembers the way his name is breathed out into the scant air between them, in a tone that makes something in Saruhiko’s chest pound until he chokes on his own breath.

“Fuckin’ tease,” Misaki gasps, and he laughs.

“But you like it,” he drawls, “Mi-sa-kiiii—“

“Oh, shut the fuck up—ah! Hnnn—”

He remembers it well—the heat, the pleasure, the pain, the overwhelming closeness and  _relief_ , and it doesn’t take long for either of them to break, to burst, too full of  _everything_ , and he swallows Misaki’s breath, keeps it in him so Misaki can’t escape, can’t let go, can’t leave him  _alone_ —

“…idiot, what the hell are you crying for?”

He doesn’t even notice the tears, doesn’t notice the sobs wrecking his whole body, but Misaki holds him—he holds Saruhiko and doesn’t let go, picking up the pieces and putting Saruhiko back together even when he remembers nothing.

He falls asleep listening to Misaki’s heartbeats.

**——-o0o——-**

Misaki throws all his cigarettes out.

“You are a horrible human being,” Saruhiko states, but there’s no heat in his voice, not when Misaki is grinning victoriously. “I fucking stocked them, Misaki.”

“Your lungs are going to rot,” Misaki retorts, then tosses him a controller. “Come on, I’m kicking your ass tonight.”

“Try me,” Saruhiko grumbles, and settles down to play.

**——-o0o——-**

He’s buried knee deep in the archives room’s mess when he hears Munakata calls for him. He grumbles in annoyance, half of his attention still at the old archives of the late Gold King.

“What?” he clicks his tongue, glancing up as he comes out of the archive room, only to see Munakata standing by the window, under those upside down  _teru teru bouzu_ , returning his gaze with something like pity.

Saruhiko frowns. He looks out the window and freezes.

On the far south, the sky is clearing up.

He’s out of the headquarters before Awashima can finish shouting his name, missing the way Munakata gently chides his second-in-command. He runs and runs and runs, as the clouds chase him, slowly but sure vanishing under the gentle rays of the sun, gorgeous against the azure sky.

 _Misaki_ , he thinks, throat clogging up with panic and fear.  _Misaki, Misaki, Misaki_ — _don’t you dare disappear. Don’t you dare._

**——-o0o——-**

There’s no one home, when he arrives.

For a second, Saruhiko thumps his head against the wall, swallowing back regret and grief and  _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ , because on the table there’s that note; the one Misaki had left before his death, the one he’d found under the rice cooker and forgotten completely.

Then his cell phone rings.

“Saruhiko.”

Anna, again. Always.

“Come to the alleyway. He’s there.”

**——-o0o——-**

He races the vanishing clouds, bumps and stumbles and forgets about everything else. Misaki is waiting, the idiot, waiting without even leaving him a message, how was he supposed to know?

“Oh,” is Misaki’s first reaction when he skids into the alleyway, looking up at him with bright eyes and a grin, like this is any other day, like the clouds aren’t rapidly vanishing up there in the sky, like Saruhiko doesn’t have any reason to hate the bright blue sky. “Hey, idiot Monkey.”

“What,” Saruhiko says slowly. “Do you think you’re doing?”

“Hmmm,” Misaki turns his back to him, looking up, at the grey clouds whose color is fading slowly into bright white. He has his hands in his jeans’ pockets, his posture relaxed like they aren’t in the middle of a stinking alleyway full with graffiti. “It’s almost time, though.”

Saruhiko’s breath hitches in his throat.

Misaki glances at him over his shoulder. “Oi, oi. What the hell is that face, dumbass.” He turns, takes the one-two-three-four steps to close the gap between them, and he’s right in front of Saruhiko, now, staring up at him with that goddamn grin. “Don’t look like you’re going to cry.”

One hand reaches up, sliding gently up Saruhiko’s shoulder to his cheek, touching him like he’s the most precious thing that ever existed. It’s unfamiliar, because Misaki is brash, always overly so, and this careful touch makes Saruhiko wants to scream, wants to be angry and irritated and break something. But Misaki’s eyes are steady, if a bit sad, and Saruhiko  _thinks how long have you known, how long have you figured it out, how long—_

“I’ve been happy,” Misaki says, holding Saruhiko’s wild eyes captive. “I know I’ve been, with you.”

“No,” Saruhiko manages to get out, but he doesn’t know what else. Everything is trying to come out of his mouth at the same time:  _don’t go, stay, why, I haven’t, were you really happy, I can’t do this, not again, please-please-please-please_. But it’s the tears that fall first, thick droplets that jump off his eyelids and blur his sight.

Misaki makes a pained noise. “I have to go.”

“I haven’t—“ Saruhiko begins, panics even as the words tumble down with no coherence, raw and painful as they echo in their empty alleyway. “Happy. You weren’t. I couldn’t—six years isn’t enough, never enough, Misaki, _please_.”

It’s Misaki’s hand that pulls him down, Misaki’s lips that search his out, Misaki’s breath that caresses his cheeks, but Saruhiko can’t breathe himself, anger and grief and desperation thick in his chest, pressing on him until he wants to curl up in Misaki’s arms and stay there forever.

“I’ve been happy, idiot.” The words are firm in his ears, Misaki’s hand steady on the back of his nape, Misaki’s body pressed solidly against his. He winds his arms around Misaki, takes him closer, and tries to curl in, like he’s trying to shield Misaki away from the world, so nothing can take Misaki away from him, not even  _God_. “Did you see me in the videos, at all? I was happy. I _am_  happy. So fucking happy I could cry.”

And he is. There’s wetness against Saruhiko’s neck where Misaki presses his face, and Saruhiko clings to that, clings to the solid presence of his best friend; the one he’s liked, he’s hated, he’s pushed, he’s loved above everything else. Misaki’s nails dig onto his shoulders, hard.

The bright sunrays are starting to sliver their way through the alleyway.

“Thank you, Saru,” Misaki murmurs, as the edge of his voice trembles. “Thank you for making me so fucking happy.”  
“No—“ Saruhiko breathes out.

“You’ll be okay.” A thump on his back—an old gesture Misaki used to do back when they were in middle school, and Saruhiko chokes down a scream. “You’ll be okay, right? Promise me, dumbass. You’ll live well, you hear that? Promise me.”

It’s a fierce demand, one that Saruhiko can’t refuse, because he’s never been able to refuse Misaki anyway, the bastard.

“I love you.” The three words sound tangible, even if they’re broken by choking sobs. “I’ll come to you, I promise. I fucking love you. Don’t you dare forget that even for a second, idiot. I’ll beat you up, I fucking swear I will.” A pause, and the sun is shining upon them, now, bright and blinding white.

Saruhiko tries to say Misaki’s name, but it comes out in a strangled sound that makes no sense.

“Saruhiko,” a small chuckle, soft and content. “Stop forgetting to wash the rice before you cook it, dumbass.”

The sun is warm, and Saruhiko’s hold tightens impossibly, before the light washes everything away.

And Misaki is gone.

**——-o0o——-**

The diary is waiting for him on the couch, opened and dog-eared, telling him that it’s been read over and over again.

He takes it, sinks down to the couch, and reads.

The apartment has traces of Misaki everywhere. The unheated leftover lunch by the microwave, the scattered DVDs and game consoles and HOMRA pictures, the pillows on the floor, the still-wet towel, the skateboard under the kitchen table. Saruhiko stares at all of them for a long time; his finger still on the last page of the diary, to which he turns his gaze. He reads the last line again, twice and thrice, then buries his face in his palms because _everything finally makes sense_.

He doesn’t know how to feel, he thinks, as he lets himself breaks into helpless sobs, but maybe, just maybe, he can move forward after this.

The last line on the page reads,  _‘I’m coming to you now, Saru.’_

**——-o0o——-**

Almost seven years before, in a chilly November night, Yata Misaki wakes up.

**——-o0o——-**

“Misaki.”

He turns, at the not-quite-teenage girl standing by his bed. Anna looks tired, even though she keeps her face blank, and Misaki feels a pang in his chest when he realizes Kusanagi is going to look so much worse.

But there’s also some kind of absurd pride, when he looks at Anna’s exhausted face, her slumped shoulders, the black bags under her eyes. Because he knows how Anna will grow up, how Anna will share half of his burden for the next six years, knowing an absolute fact that he doesn’t even have to say because Anna picks it up off his mind anyway.

She hands him a paper bag with the things he’s asked her for in it: the diary, this one still brand new, its leather cover gleaming under the light of the hospital room. The same pencil he’d seen in the so-called treasure box.

“Thank you,” Misaki says, and smiles as his hand accepts the familiar weight of the diary. He’s read everything that he’s going to write on it, and that’s a weird circle, it really is, but Misaki thinks it’s more than worth it.

Everything, in exchange of a choice.

“Is Misaki sure,” Anna says quietly, “that it’s not just a dream?”

Misaki pauses, flattens his palm on the cover of the diary, and closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry I made you cry, Anna,” he grins wryly. There’s a soft red dusting Anna’s cheeks now, complete with the slight pout that comes out when she tries to feign annoyance. The fourteen year-old girl ducks her head, sits down and folds her hands on her lap, silent and pondering, and Misaki leaves her to her thoughts.

There’s a lot to digest, even for him.

It’s been three months since he was caught in the Green King’s Damocles Fall, according to Kusanagi. Kamamoto, Shouhei and Eric had all woken up weeks after the incident, after the Dresden Slate had been successfully disassembled. Misaki remembers, vividly, how the green Sword of Damocles had hit the ground, how he’d watched the blast coming towards him, how Kamamoto had pushed him down, how screams echoed in the air.

He remembers. He also remembers a twenty-nine-year-old Saruhiko murmuring about it, an expression so haunted Misaki shudders to remember it.

He’d been in a coma for three months, people say. But that’s not quite right, though as for this, only Misaki and Anna would ever know. And Saruhiko, but that’s much, much later, when Misaki is dead and the rainy season ends.

For the three months he’s been in a coma, Yata Misaki has jumped into a future nearly seven years later, with no memory intact, into a rainy season almost a year after his death, finding a broken Saruhiko and a happiness he’s never expected.

“I’m going to Kyoto,” he says to Anna, a wide grin plastered perfectly on his face. “You can come with me if you want, Anna.”

Because Saruhiko is in Kyoto, and Misaki needs to see him and smack some sense into him. Especially for writing him off so easily. It would take more than a Damocles Fall explosion to kill Yatagarasu, he thinks smugly, except he knows it would take less than that, and he doesn’t mind that, really.

If he doesn’t choose this path, he might be able to live longer. He might be able to stay with his fellow HOMRA, and help Kusanagi-san and wreak havoc in this new, peaceful Shizume City without Kings.

But there’s happiness. He’s tasted a little of it—what’s offered in this path, by seeking out Saruhiko and takes this chance. It’s an unexpected happiness, but he knows it makes his chest full to the brim with warmth and contentment. Even if it only gives him another six years to live—that’s okay, too.

He’ll make lots and lots of good memories.

“Ah, Kusanagi-san,” he calls, when the door to his room opens, revealing the blond bartender. “How much do you think I’d need if I want to buy a digital camera?”

**——-o0o——-**

“Misaki.”

“Huh? Oh, you’re still awake, Anna.”

“…..”

“What is it?”

“The twenty-year-old me…”

“Huh?”

“Is she beautiful?”

“…Yeah. Probably the most awesome young woman I’ve ever seen.”

**——-o0o——-**

He goes to Kyoto, breaks into a government building and takes the time to sneer at other SCEPTER 4 members that are there. There’s one that’s really familiar—Domyou… Domyouji?—bristling at him, but Misaki ignores him in favor of gazing at Saruhiko, who’s seemingly been frozen in his seat, eyes wide and full of disbelief.

“Oi, idiot Monkey!” He grins, feeling both elated and crazy, even as he prods Saruhiko with his skateboard before pulling him up. “Come on, let’s go.”

There are splutters and outraged protests, which Misaki waves away because that’s how he fucking rolls. He drags Saruhiko out the building, shoves him into the subway and rants about idiot Monkeys who can’t ever wait, didn’t Misaki tell him that he’s coming for him, goddammit, why does Saruhiko have to make everything so complicated. Saruhiko listens with a half-opened mouth, but the tips of his fingers are shaking hard, and Misaki cannot not take them into his own.

He stares dead into Saruhiko’s eyes. “I’m alive, idiot.”

“You are.” Saruhiko tries to drawl, but it comes out trembling. “I shouldn’t be surprised—you’re like a cockroach.”

Misaki snorts. “And I’m moving into your place.”

Saruhiko’s hands jerk backwards. “What,” he says, but Misaki laughs and silences him with a kiss.

**——-o0o——-**

Misaki insists on an apartment at the border of Shizume City, not far from the HOMRA bar, and Saruhiko doesn’t try to fight.

He grumbles, though, but fuck if Misaki cares.

They move, with the help of some SCEPTER 4 members plus Kamamoto and Kusanagi and Anna, and Misaki spends half of the day snapping away with his brand new digital camera until Saruhiko kicks him and tells him to bring the boxes in. He does, and Anna makes them tea—jasmine, which makes him grin at Anna in a conspiratorial way.

Saruhiko drops on the floor and sleeps the afternoon away. He falls on top of him, closes his eyes as he feels the taller man’s arms winding around his waist—and there it is, the warmth, the contentment, the beginning of happiness he’s chased to this second.

There’s a click and a bright flash, then Kamamoto’s voice was saying, “Oh, Anna, did you just take a picture of them. How cute!”

And there’s Anna’s voice, steady and calm and secretive, “No, this one’s taken by Kamamoto.”

Misaki hides his grin on Saruhiko’s neck, and thinks, ha, life always has a way to surprise him.

I’m going to scatter like flower petals

I’ll accept everything in this world

The thing that you left me

Is a real treasure called “present”

That’s why, living with all my might, I’ll become a flower

  
**_~Hana_** _, Orange Range_.

**——-o0ofinitoo0o———**


End file.
